Please give any thoughts and corrections of any kind. I had to rush so the grammar and sentence structure is not up to the mark ! Any help is appreciated. Thanks. :)
Growing up, I always felt agitated with the 'division' in our society. They say 'The poor will always remain poor and the rich always rich'- which explains why hundreds of homeless people sleep under the sodium light on the footpaths of Dhaka every night.
On my way from home to school, I would encounter at least a dozen children, with chips or popcorn or roses in hand. They seemed to have a natural way of convincing me. For instance, I could never say no to a little girl who urged me to buy a red rose, despite I had no use of it !
It was a Sunday like any other on November 18, 2012. I went to school, came back and did my chores. But little did I know what was waiting ahead. During supper, I turned on the tv. To my astonishment, I saw a girl crying and describing what she saw earlier today. The devastating fire at Hazaribagh slum that took her parents away forever, left a burning scar on her face and left arm. The girl was Tuba.
I knew Tuba from her roses. She was an adept at convincing me to buy her roses. I wondered how she was doing. Will I ever see her again with her hands full of roses ? I decided to visit the slum after a few days. Unexpectedly enough, I found the miserable people of the slum had already got over their loss. They resign to disaster so easily ! My search for Tuba took me to her aunt's place. She now lives there and works as a maid in an office. She doesn't go out to sell roses anymore. Is it because of the scars on her face, I don't know. She never told me and I never asked her why. My heart ached when I learned about how she is physically and verbally abused at work. It's astounding how she managed to put a smile on her face while recounting those horrible experiences.
The next day, I visited Tuba with a pink overcoat, she grabbed it with her head down, too timid to look. Forcing her eyes to hold back the tears. I would wonder night and day, 'were those tears of joy or sadness?'
I wrote Tuba's story in my school and local newspapers asking to raise funds and secure her child rights. Much to my delight, it got solid reviews from local NGOs, government workers and well wishers. But a few days passed and yet again Tuba went into oblivion.
With every passing day, Tuba inspires me. She installed a seed of leadership that incites me to stand hand-in-hand with her and ask for 'equilibrium' of our society. I now write for those who silently endure abuses because 'we' characterize them as illiterate, useless.
Every day hundreds of Tuba around my country, suffer from poverty and abuse. I give my word, I will lend my hand to rescue as many of them as I can.
Growing up, I always felt agitated with the 'division' in our society. They say 'The poor will always remain poor and the rich always rich'- which explains why hundreds of homeless people sleep under the sodium light on the footpaths of Dhaka every night.
On my way from home to school, I would encounter at least a dozen children, with chips or popcorn or roses in hand. They seemed to have a natural way of convincing me. For instance, I could never say no to a little girl who urged me to buy a red rose, despite I had no use of it !
It was a Sunday like any other on November 18, 2012. I went to school, came back and did my chores. But little did I know what was waiting ahead. During supper, I turned on the tv. To my astonishment, I saw a girl crying and describing what she saw earlier today. The devastating fire at Hazaribagh slum that took her parents away forever, left a burning scar on her face and left arm. The girl was Tuba.
I knew Tuba from her roses. She was an adept at convincing me to buy her roses. I wondered how she was doing. Will I ever see her again with her hands full of roses ? I decided to visit the slum after a few days. Unexpectedly enough, I found the miserable people of the slum had already got over their loss. They resign to disaster so easily ! My search for Tuba took me to her aunt's place. She now lives there and works as a maid in an office. She doesn't go out to sell roses anymore. Is it because of the scars on her face, I don't know. She never told me and I never asked her why. My heart ached when I learned about how she is physically and verbally abused at work. It's astounding how she managed to put a smile on her face while recounting those horrible experiences.
The next day, I visited Tuba with a pink overcoat, she grabbed it with her head down, too timid to look. Forcing her eyes to hold back the tears. I would wonder night and day, 'were those tears of joy or sadness?'
I wrote Tuba's story in my school and local newspapers asking to raise funds and secure her child rights. Much to my delight, it got solid reviews from local NGOs, government workers and well wishers. But a few days passed and yet again Tuba went into oblivion.
With every passing day, Tuba inspires me. She installed a seed of leadership that incites me to stand hand-in-hand with her and ask for 'equilibrium' of our society. I now write for those who silently endure abuses because 'we' characterize them as illiterate, useless.
Every day hundreds of Tuba around my country, suffer from poverty and abuse. I give my word, I will lend my hand to rescue as many of them as I can.